


At a Stage in Life Where Other Men Prosper

by oh_mr_adams



Category: 1776 (1972), 1776 - Edwards/Stone
Genre: Banter, Canon Era, Drinking, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Shenanigans, not like graphic though, pre-canon events, puking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25673623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_mr_adams/pseuds/oh_mr_adams
Summary: John Adams is reduced to living in Philadelphia. He has some interesting nights, at least.
Relationships: John Adams & John Dickinson, John Adams & Richard Henry Lee, John Adams/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	At a Stage in Life Where Other Men Prosper

John Adams couldn’t imagine anyone he’d wish less to be the man holding his hair back while he puked into a grungy alleyway, except maybe Rutledge. But John Adams rarely got what he wanted, and so John Dickinson was holding his hair loosely behind him while he vomited up what seemed to him like a gallon of rum, bracing himself against the outside wall of the tavern. Dickinson’s job was usually accomplished well enough by a ribbon, but that had disappeared sometime in the night, and so now John Adams’ greatest enemy was standing behind him in silence with a handful of his hair.  
  
Eventually, the torrent of rum slowed to a stop and John straightened his back, wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve. Two pairs of half-lidded, bleary eyes met each other, neither man able to muster up any form of expression other than bleak resignation. The scathing remarks John had been expecting never came, and he slowly pondered the idea that if Dickinson had been decent enough to keep him from puking into his hair, he may not have needed to expect scathing remarks in the first place.   
  
“I thought you New Englanders were supposed to be able to hold your rum.”   
  
There it was.   
  
Adams just let his head lull to the side a bit. He didn’t have the energy to speak or the cognitive abilities to find a response, and so he just fixed Dickinson with a dull, pleading look. His hair, having been let down, was beginning to tickle the back of his neck, and he thought about how many of his problems would have never come to be if he hadn’t lost track of his hair ribbon.   
  


“Why are you here?” He mumbled, and a chilly silence hung between them. A sharp breeze blew a lock of hair into his face, and he realized he’d lost track of his coat as well. Also the time. And his location.   
  
Dickinson raised both eyebrows, folding his arms across his chest. “Why am I here?” There was a breathy layer of venom to his voice that Adams found familiarly comforting. He nodded, and Dickinson’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m here because you decided to drink your weight in whatever was on hand, and letting you find your own way home probably would have constituted manslaughter.” A hesitant grin formed on Adams’ face. “And we are here,” Dickinson gestured vaguely to the alleyway, “because I figured you would have preferred it to losing your rum in the broader street. Or on someone’s shoes, for that matter.” Adams nodded slowly, still bracing himself against the wall.   
  
“Why did you stay?”   
  
Dickinson fixed him with a glare until he seemed to lose all the tension in his muscles and rolled his eyes with a sigh. He grabbed the collar of John’s waistcoat and jerked him out into the street. “Because clearly unlike yourself, I was raised to be polite. Now walk.”   
  
John stumbled out of the alley, not as if he had much choice in the matter, as he made frail attempts to collect his thoughts. He slung one arm around Dickinson’s shoulder to steady himself, to which Dickinson gave a hiss but didn’t complain further. John sorted through his muddled memories of the two of them in that tavern together for hours, wavering rhythmically between laughing at and screaming at (and occasionally laughing with and screaming with) each other, and he could not begin to measure the amount of alcohol they’d put away. He was foggy on the subject of whatever had gotten him to drink with Dickinson in the first place. That afternoon felt like years ago, perhaps Franklin had convinced him to go out, or maybe it was Thomas. He vaguely recalled others being there, but eventually, Dickinson was the only one left and now Dickinson was dragging him… somewhere.   
  
“Where are we walking to, exactly?” John asked, his eyes not wanting to leave the rows and rows of cobblestones. Dickinson gave a huff.   
  
“To your apartment. Obviously.”   
  
“Ah.” Of course. That made sense. Another moment of still silence passed. “Where is that?” Dickinson froze and Adams pitched forward, stumbling for a few steps as Dickinson made no attempt to catch him. A long moment passed before Dickinson ran his hands down his face.   
  
“Are you serious?” He let out a groan. Adams watched with a blank expression as Dickinson slowly lowered himself to the ground, sitting pathetically in the street. Dickinson looked up at him with something between incredulousness and loathing. “You don’t know where you live?” His voice cracked and Adams shrugged. His head was spinning and so he grabbed a nearby lamppost, hugging it as he carefully sat himself down beside Dickinson.   
  
“Well…” his head was cocked to the side in thought, or perhaps simply because he didn’t have the strength to hold it upright. “I have a vague idea. But no clue where we are right now. So it’s not much help.” Dickinson just buried his face in his hands again. Adams glared, prodding him in the shoulder. “But you’re the sober one. That’s your job.” Dickinson’s eyes went wide.   
  
“Sober?” He spluttered, looking very much at that moment like he’d enjoy strangling Mr. Adams. “Did you not remember the last…” He paused, and almost began to count on his fingers before shaking his head in frustration, “...Many hours in which we were drinking together!”   
  
“I have little to no memory of anything that happened today after about four in the afternoon.”   
  
Dickinson simply stared at him with no hint of emotion behind his eyes, like his brain had been sent off to sea and left his body in Philadelphia. “Nothing?” He croaked. Adams shook his head. With a long, slow, sigh, Dickinson looked up at a moth that was bashing itself repeatedly into the flickering glow of the streetlamp. “I can’t say my memory is faring much better.” Silence sat between them until they looked at each other with blank expressions, before the laughter building up in Adams’ chest finally overflowed and he doubled over, snickering. Dickinson did the same until their pounding headaches caused them simultaneously to groan, and they sat back up in an attempt to breathe. “Would you like me to try my best to piece together what got us here?”   
  
Adams rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “That would be helpful.” Shakily, Dickinson rose to his feet, and hugging the streetlamp with one arm, extended the other to Adams, who looked quite agonized at this turn of events.   
  
“Must we walk?”   
  
“Yes. Up. I still have my own apartment to find after I dump you somewhere, you selfish prick.” Adams groaned, but took Dickinson’s hand and rose slowly, closing his eyes when his vision started to spin around him. He was kept upright by Dickinson’s arm around his waist, and he thought to return the favor as he slowly put one foot in front of the other.   
  
“So,” Dickinson began cautiously, “This afternoon, James and I went to the City Tavern, as we often do. Unfortunately for us, you showed up a few moments after, accompanied by Dr. Franklin and Mr. Jefferson.”   
  
“The both of them?”   
  
“Don’t interrupt.” Adams used what little energy he had remaining to roll his eyes while Dickinson continued to talk. “Dr. Franklin immediately left for the rooms upstairs, accompanied by…” he chewed on his lip, “A lady. As is his modus operandum.” Adams gave a slow nod.

“That sounds about right.”  
  
“I thought you didn’t remember anything?”   
  
“Just going on common sense.”   
  
Dickinson chuckled, then tightened his grip around Adams’ waist as he nearly tripped over a loose cobblestone. “Be careful,” he murmured.   
  
“Keep talking.”   
  
“You and Jefferson sat at the bar for a while, then left. You came back and kept drinking, and eventually, I said something about you to James, purposefully loud enough for you to overhear, so you came swaggering over in your usual obnoxious way-”   
  
“I do not swagger,” John huffed.   
  
“You came swaggering over-”   
  
“I do not swagger! You swagger.”   
  
“Perhaps you swagger when you’ve had too much to drink.” John gave a hum of agreement. “Anyway,” Dickinson breathed, “You… came over, and started bickering with me, and very much imposed yourself on us. You refused to leave our table, and every time I ordered a drink, you tried to match me. Of course, with your stature-”   
  
“Be quiet!”   
  
“It’s true, you know.”   
  
“I’d kick you in the shin but then we’d both be on the ground.”   
  
Dickinson laughed. “James eventually left at some point, so then I was stuck with you.”   
  
“You also could have left,” Adams reminded him.   
  
“I could have, I wanted to, and I was going to, except unfortunately it became very clear that you were about to…” He awkwardly mimed John puking up his rum, “And I figured it wouldn’t be good for either of us if I let you vomit on someone’s shoes.”   
  
“You’re such a considerate man, John Dickinson.” Dickinson nodded.   
  
“I am.”   
  
“Where did we go?” Adams asked after a brief moment. Dickinson blinked.   
  
“Hm? What?”   
  
“Jefferson and I. You said we went somewhere.”   
  
“Oh, I did. Well…” he thought earnestly for a moment before giving a huff. “How the hell would I know?” He cried, and Adams gave a gentle nod.   
  
“Fair point.”   
  
They walked in silence until eventually, the cobblestone streets below John’s feet turned to grass and he slowly looked up. Visible in the distance was the Pennsylvania state house, a familiar sight but never a welcome one. Although after having no earthly idea where he was (in retrospect, he should have, as he’d gone to the City Tavern most nights a week, yet in his defense, his brain was currently doing backflips inside of his skull) that familiar sight reassured him of the fact he would, one day, find his apartment, and from there, his bed.   
  
He didn’t notice they’d stopped walking until Dickinson had slid his arm from its grip around his waist and once again, lowered himself to the ground. Adams stared at him with raised eyebrows as Dickinson laid down in the grass, draping one arm over his eyes.   
  
“Dickinson?” He asked hesitantly. “What are you doing?”   
  
“Laying down.” 

Adams blinked. “Why?” He eventually asked, standing over Dickinson and applying a very gentle kick to his side. Dickinson swatted his foot away with a grimace.  
  
“I’m tired. I’ve practically been carrying you this whole time.” Adams scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.   
  
“You most certainly have not!”   
  
“Mr. Adams, have you any idea how heavy you are?” Dickinson asked, a thin attempt at feigning politeness audible in his voice. John’s face went red with indignation and he aimed a more forceful kick at Dickinson’s side.   
  
“Ow!”   
  
“Weren’t you just making fun of my small stature?”   
  
“Yes. You’re very small. And so heavy.” Adams grit his teeth and Dickinson lifted his arm from his eyes. “Don’t kick me again. This evening has put my organs through enough abuse as it is.” Adams opened his mouth to argue, but Dickinson gestured towards the grass beside him. “Just lay down for a bit. You’ll like it, I promise.” With a pause and a soft sigh, Adams gradually got down onto the ground and laid on his back in the grass. The sky overhead was dark and thick with clouds, and John couldn’t begin to guess what time it must have been.   
  
He’d hoped to gain some comfort by closing his eyes, but even in the dark, Philadelphia still smelled like Philadelphia and the nauseating idea that he was living in Philadelphia permeated the farthest corners of his brain. At least there was silence, all except for the chorus of crickets (but Boston crickets sounded quite similar, and the noise could easily be confused as such) and Dickinson’s gentle breathing. A cool, placid silence to ease the throbbing in his brain.   
  
“Johnny?”   
  
_Oh, good God._

Footsteps approaching. Familiar footsteps. No one else in all of Philadelphia could manage to walk so loudly or so quickly or so emphatically. John slowly peeked his eyes open to a blur of orange.  
  
“Two Johnnies! Now, what are you fellows doing out here?” Richard asked with a grin, folding his arms across his chest and leaning down to look at John. He was smiling far too brightly for this level of headache, John thought. Dickinson slowly removed his arm from over his eyes.   
  
“I could ask you the same thing,” Adams mumbled, and Richard dropped onto the ground beside him. He opened his mouth to say something, then wrinkled his nose, looking at John with a grimace.   
  
“You smell like rum.”   
  
“Mhm.”   
  
“A lot of rum.” John gave another hum, closing his eyes again. “So that’s what you boys have been up to?” Richard asked, nodding slowly with his usual grin. Dickinson propped himself up on one elbow in order to look at Richard overtop Adams.   
  
“What brings you out here this time of night, Mr. Lee?” He asked. “Have you also forgotten where it is you live?” Richard laughed in a way that reverberated throughout John’s skull.   
  
“No, I just couldn’t seem to get to sleep. Must be the full moon.” He looked up at the pale glow just barely showing through the clouds. Dickinson slowly sat up, looking quite amused by this.   
  
“Mr. Lee, are you insinuating that you’re some kind of wild animal?” Richard was silent for a moment before he looked at Dickinson with an uncharacteristic smugness.   
  
“Well, I’ve often been told…” he trailed off as Dickinson started chuckling, and Adams screwed his eyes shut with another groan.   
  
“Disgusting.”

Dickinson and Lee only laughed harder as the latter gave John’s shoulder a friendly shove. John rubbed his bleary eyes with his knuckles and slowly moved to sit up, as it appeared he wouldn’t be given the opportunity to return to his thoughts, or to his bed, anytime soon. Richard looked at him appraisingly, to which John felt an urge to back up a little.  
  
“I like what you’ve done with your hair,” he said with a nod, causing Dickinson to snort. John rolled his eyes.   
  
“It isn’t permanent. I’ve simply lost the ribbon that was keeping it up.” Richard gave him an odd look.   
  
“And how did you go about doing that, Johnny?”   
  
“I don’t know!” He gave a pained shrug. “I swear, I don’t remember this evening at all.” Richard’s eyes widened.   
  
“At all?”   
  
“I had to hold his hair back while he puked up his rum,” Dickinson interjected, only to be met with Adams’ elbow in his ribs. Richard looked all too amused by this for John’s liking, and John returned to his usual scowling. Feeling a wave of exhaustion creep over him, he let out a yawn, loosening his cravat with one finger. This elicited a slight gasp from Richard, and John stiffened, whipping his head around to look at him.   
  
“What?” He hissed, and Richard simply stared back at him in what was clearly some unholy mixture of amusement, confusion, and disbelief. John followed Richard’s gaze down to his neck and, with a slight anxiety, pressed the tips of his fingers to where Richard was staring. A dull, but tender pain radiated from it. “What?” He asked again, a bit more nervously. Richard bit down on his tongue in silence, and Dickinson leaned forward between them.   
  
“What’s going on-” Dickinson froze, having seen whatever the hell it was that had forced Richard into an uncharacteristic, but entirely welcome, silence. His look of astonishment faded into a smug grin as he leaned back on his heels. “Well, now, Mr. Adams,” he purred, and John scooted backwards a bit, feeling suddenly like a rabbit cornered by both a starving hawk and a particularly dumb horse. Both quite dangerous creatures. “Where on earth did that interesting bruise on your neck come from?” John had finally come to realize what the offending mark had been, and his entire face became the same shade of red as his bruise.   
  
“I have no idea what either of you two are talking about,” he huffed, “Dickinson, you’re drunk, and Richard… well you’re just being yourself, aren’t you?” Dickinson gave a sharp laugh, falling back to sit on the ground, and Richard had the sense to look offended.   
  
“Well, Johnny, since you’ve clearly had too much to drink and this has,” he grinned in a way that John could tell was a bit more than his usual friendly countenance, “clearly been quite an eventful night for you, I’ll give you a pardon on that one.” John rolled his eyes, wishing Dickinson had just left him to pass out by himself at the tavern.   
  
“You’re too kind.”   
  
“I know!” Richard chirped, and gave John an enthusiastic slap on the back. A moment passed in silence as Richard stared at the two Johns, chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought. Adams watched him, with a very deeply buried amusement at the thought of Richard being deep in thought. He bit back the laughter that threatened to rise, as he’d already been pardoned once. Richard’s voice finally dragged him from his pondering. “I’m still quite shocked to find you both here. I figured if you two were left unsupervised for too long, there’d be blood.”   
  
Dickinson leaned back on his hands, looking between the two of them. “Well, I doubt Mr. Adams could very well hold his own in a fight right now. I’ve decided to take the moral high road at this time.” Adams rolled his eyes.   
  
“It’s not that I couldn’t,” he slurred through a heavy yawn, “I just don’t really see you as a worthy target for the little energy I have left.”   
  
“I’m not so sure about that, Mr. Adams. You seemed quite attached to me earlier.”   
  
“I’ll hate you again when I’m sober.”   
  
“I guess I ought to bring you back to the tavern then.”   
  
Adams paused, his drunken brain trying to parse apart Dickinson’s meaning at the cognitive rate of cold molasses. He wondered if this was how Richard felt on a daily basis, and then felt like a bit of an ass for that thought. There really was no reason for him to be so rude. Instead of responding, he just blinked at Dickinson, who quickly looked away, and then to Richard, who’d been amusing himself by ripping grass out of the ground and sprinkling it onto John’s leg. John watched the ever-increasing pile of torn grass on his thigh.   
  
“So…” Richard broke the uncomfortable silence, “Any idea what gave you that, er… interesting bruise, Johnny?”   
  
“More like who,” Dickinson interjected. Heat radiated from Adams’ cheeks and he wished very badly he had his cane and could knock some decency into the both of them.   
  
“No,” he said sharply, “And I’m not tolerating any further discussion on the matter.”   
  
“It looks fairly fresh,” Dickinson noted, completely ignoring him, “It would have had to have been from this afternoon.”   
  
“I am not tolerating any further discussion on the matter!” John said more loudly, his voice breaking into an odd squeak. Richard smiled, squeezing John’s shoulder.   
  
“Oh come on, Johnny. We won’t tell.” John threw his hands up in the air.   
  
“There’s nothing to tell! I swear everything before throwing up behind the tavern is a blur.” Richard shook his head.   
  
“You must have really outdone yourself. You know people of your stature shouldn’t- ow!” John had aimed as much of a kick as he could manage towards Richard’s shin, scattering the pile of grass that had been stacked onto his thigh.   
  
“Careful,” Dickinson chimed in, “He’s a little kicky this evening.”   
  
John had turned to Dickinson with a glare, only to feel a certain alarmed shock at the orange light filtering up through the horizon. It was just barely noticeable but reflected on the bottoms of the clouds a faint glow that only seemed to grow brighter with each passing moment. The night had gone, and another morning in Philadelphia had just begun. John fell backwards into the grass with a groan. Another morning. In Philadelphia. In that congress. His stomach twisted itself into knots. With Dickinson. He blinked at that- the next morning would be odd, wouldn’t it? He’d spent months and months hating Dickinson, after once being his friend, and now they were… well, he didn’t know what to call it. Hopefully, whatever this was would vanish with the coming of a strong hangover. Hating Dickinson was comfortable.   
  
After a moment’s thought, John knew exactly what morning would bring, and he truly resented it. Another afternoon in that room, with those people, who all very much hated him. Not to mention today he’d be coming in with a hangover and depending on whether or not he found his apartment, he may very well be wearing yesterday’s clothes. And - he lifted the tips of his fingers to his neck, there was still the matter of the mystery of this bruise.   
  
John sat up with a sigh, and his hair fell loosely across his shoulders. He figured that by being in the proximity of the statehouse he could well enough find his way home, but the thought of being alone at that moment disturbed him, and so he continued to play dumb. The other men had been silent for a while; Lee was still tearing the grass from the ground and Dickinson had reclined to stare up at the sky, his hands laced neatly together over his chest. Adams thought that his best option was to remain quiet. If he remained quiet, for one of the rare moments in his life, then morning would cease to come and his life could remain in the still peace this moment contained. 

Dickinson eventually propped himself up on one elbow to look at him. “We ought to get you home,” he murmured. John shrugged, looking up towards the sky.  
  
“It’s already morning. Not as if I’ll get much sleep now.” 

Richard turned his gaze to the sky. “Why so it is.” Dickinson gave a groan, pushing back his bangs from his forehead. They bounced back into place.  
  
“Well, now what?” He asked, his upper lip curling into its usual frustrated sneer. Adams just gave a lazy shrug. Even if he could figure out the way to his apartment, he lacked the energy to get himself there.   
  
“We could spend the rest of the night in the statehouse,” Richard suggested, earning a snort from Dickinson.   
  
“We spend enough time there, why in God’s name would you want to spend the night?” He folded his arms over his chest as Richard moved to stand up.   
  
“Oh come on, Dicky,” (Dickinson winced at that) “It’ll be a sleepover.” He reached down for Dickinson’s hand, and after a moment of fruitless glaring, Dickinson finally offered it. Adams watched all of this with a dull sort of amusement, his brain halfway between the buzz of drunkenness and the ache of sobriety. He blinked as Richard stood over him, and then with a sigh, offered his hand and was yanked upwards to his feet. He stumbled a few steps due to the momentum, but Richard caught him and steadied him. The Virginian slung one arm around Adams’ shoulders and the other around Dickinson’s, and both Johns were growing perpetually more disturbed by his enthusiasm.   
  
Walking still proved a struggle, but Richard proved a much more solid support than Dickinson had. His arm was locked firmly around John’s shoulders and being so close to him was like hugging a furnace. Still, Richard was supporting most of his weight and the grass, followed by cobblestones, began to blur in front of him as John’s eyelids grew heavy.   
  
He’d only realized they’d made it to the statehouse when Richard propped him up against the outside wall long enough to get the door open. He grabbed him again, half-supporting him and half-dragging him inside, and, as a surprise to himself, John was too tired to even complain about being manhandled. The all-enveloping dark was a welcome relief, as even the dim streetlamps and cloud-covered moon outside had begun to burn into his eyes, and the raw, scratchiness of his throat made him well aware of the caliber of hangover he could expect. Even with the windows, the congress chamber hadn’t proved much brighter, and in silence, Richard let go of both Johns and the three men drifted towards their respective tables. A sharp bang broke through the silence, followed by a muffled swear that came very clearly from Dickinson.   
  
“Johnny?”   
  
“My damned shin.” Adams snorted. “Be quiet,” Dickinson hissed as Adams pulled his chair out from his desk and sat, immediately burying his head in his arms and closing his eyes.   
  
“Hey, you guys.” A loud whisper from the other end of the room made John’s ears twitch.   
  
“What is it, Richard?” John asked, muffled into his sleeves.   
  
“I think we’d all be better off if you two were friends all the time, instead of just when you’re drunk.” John blinked his eyes open, his mind grasping for whatever the hell might have prompted that comment. He slowly picked his head up, and his eyes, having adjusted to the dark, could vaguely make out Dickinson doing the same. Richard was seated in the window, staring out of it, and only after a moment of silence, turned to look at the two of them. John continued to blink dumbly for a moment, scratching at the back of his head.   
  
“Well that would require Mr. Dickinson gaining some common sense, as well as morals and maybe a touch of consideration for people other than himself,” he noticed Dickinson stiffen in his periphery, “So yes, Richard, I do suppose we’d all be better off.”   
  
Dickinson scoffed. “Even if I held the same beliefs you did, Mr. Adams, as to what is right and wrong and what is sensible, you must admit to the fact that even those on your side find you obnoxious, insufferable, and would be hard-pressed to call you a friend.”   
  
“You guys-” Richard whined. Adams just sat there, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t wrong. He rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. Things were becoming familiar again.   
  
“Well fortunately for me, I didn’t come to Philadelphia to make friends. Contrary to popular belief, this is actually a job.”   
  
He could almost hear Dickinson’s smug, lopsided grin through the inky blackness of the room. “And you’re having a fine time at that, aren’t you, Mr. Adams? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so dedicated to something as you are to shooting your own cause in the foot.”   
  
“You guys,” Richard said more firmly, a shade of annoyance in his voice that was startlingly out of character. If anyone put a great amount of stock in the importance of friendship, it was probably him, John thought. He ignored him.   
  
“It’s not as if I’m given the chance to shoot it in the foot, what with your impossible intransigence. It’s like talking to a brick wall,” Adams muttered and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. “But at the very least, a brick wall stands for something.”   
  
Dickinson rose halfway from his seat before the sound of Richard smacking hands against his face was heard. “Would you both shut up and go to sleep?” He asked, somewhere between an order and a whine. Dickinson slowly sat back down, not removing his gaze from Adams.   
  
“You started this,” Adams growled, once again resting his head in his arms on the table.   
  
“Well you don’t always have to finish things, John,” Richard replied, and at Dickinson’s quiet chuckling, he gave the man a pointed glare. “That goes for the both of you.” Silence fell over the three of them, and John tried his best to sleep. His head was still pounding, though his brain had slowly ceased doing summersaults, and now he simply wished for water and for his bed. A dull, but ever-present anxiety kept him from moving, knowing that any noise he made would stand out clearly in the thick silence. The simple knowledge of Dickinson’s presence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand perpetually on end, and he resigned himself to not getting any sleep. The man was so cold, so callous, John swore he brought down the temperature of the room ten degrees every time he came in. And it still wasn’t enough to make Philadelphia summers tolerable.

  
His brain meandered through vaguely-connected trains of thought until the dark warmth of sleep encroached on the edges of his consciousness. Everything started to grow warmer and heavier for a slow moment. Then he was sharply pulled from sleep by a startling noise. Jerking up in his seat, he could see Dickinson do the same, and they rapidly glanced around the room for the source of the hellish noise. Like grating metal against stone, or someone trying to pull a carriage through a much too narrow alleyway.   
  
Richard was in the window sill, his arms folded over his chest and his head lulled forward, snoring every few seconds. John’s mouth was slightly agape, in utter disbelief that anyone could possibly snore so loudly. “Oh good god,” he muttered, and the two Johns looked at each other.   
  
“It’s like someone’s cutting down a cedar with a handsaw,” Dickinson said quietly, and Adams couldn’t help the smirk that twitched onto his lips. Dickinson returned it, and they looked at each other in a comfortable silence until they both grew too tired to keep their heads up.   
  
The very next thing Adams remembered was pathetically trying to bury his head further into his arms as harsh light permeated his eyelids. His whole body ached and his head throbbed tenfold what it had last night. He almost considered just crawling under the table and trying to go back to sleep. When he made the herculean effort of picking his head up, he noticed people were already shuffling into the room. Dickinson was investing himself in a newspaper, looking like he’d crawled through hell but certainly not acting like it. Adams cringed as he tried to imagine what he must have looked like, still in yesterday’s clothes, his hair still let down across his shoulders. He watched Dickinson as the man casually ignored him, and he realized that nothing had changed. Perhaps that was for the best.   
  
He didn’t realize how long he’d been staring until his view was blocked by a maroon waistcoat. He blinked, sitting back in his chair, and looked up at the familiar face above him, framed in coppery red hair and looking oddly nervous. Thomas was not exactly confident, but he never looked nervous. John blinked up at him as Thomas slowly pulled something from his pocket, swallowing heavily and rapidly switching back and forth on the decision of whether or not to make eye contact. John slowly put his hand out and Thomas let a familiar ribbon of black silk fall into it. John immediately recognized it and felt his face grow warm, then his chest, then his stomach.   
  
“I, um…” Thomas mumbled, “Found this in my pocket. I forgot to give it back to you after I… removed it.” At the sight of John’s face going red, Thomas’ face tried very hard to match it.   
  
“Removed it?” John asked dumbly, and Thomas’ face flushed deeper.   
  
“At the tavern. Upstairs. You know. During our… well…” his hands balled nervously into fists and he stood stiffly still, deciding definitely to not make eye contact. 

The memories of the forgotten part of his evening came flooding back, and John was glad for the decision. He tenderly touched the tips of his fingers to the still-tender bruise on his neck. Ah. Mystery solved.  
  
“So,” Thomas asked, scratching at the side of his head after the silence between them had hung for entirely too long. “The Bunch of Grapes tonight? Or the City Tavern again?” John blinked.   
  
“How about… my apartment? I think some sobriety might do me good.”


End file.
